Sweet Tooth

“Alex”

Her eyes darted around the room, checking there was no one within earshot.

“Please”

He let out a sigh. She could hear the depth of it, even from her end of the phone. “Honestly I don’t know anymore.”

“But you said you’d try—

“Lola, this was my night – my coworkers. It was my crowd to impress for once, but you just couldn’t help yourself.”

“It was Ryan, he was the one who asked. Then all the other chefs; they gathered round when I started talking about the book. I never would’ve volunteered that infor—

“You don’t even have a book yet!” he went quite, she could sense his restraint. She appreciated it.

“You know what?” he continued, “There’s nothing left to rehash. I’m done.”

A lump swelled in Lola’s throat, she could feel the tears burning below the surface. Panicked, she slid deeper into the corridors of the library and hid in a corner between the horror and history section. The comedic timing wasn’t lost on her. In fact, she found comfort in it. But she dared not bring it up. It was her tendency to fixate on her ideas that got them here in the first place. Or as Alex so often put it:

‘That thing you do where you force everyone to stop to consider how clever you are.’

“Lola, are you still there?”

She cleared her throat, “Yes, I’m here, just listening.”

“Are you? Cause I feel like we’ve been here before, it's all stuff I’ve said before.”

“Yes, but you also said you’d give me time to change, so what’s the stuff you say really good for?”

“I’m sorry.” He said, hanging up.

She shoved her phone in her pocket before leaving the library. The afternoon sun stung her eyes. She dug into her bag for her hat. Pulling at its stalk, she tugged it and several chocolate wrappers out with it. An unwelcome reminder of how many she had breezed through that morning.

They fell to the pavement, taking with them what was left of her will to carry through the day. She sighed, taking a moment before crouching to pick them up. She looked around for a nearby bin and that’s when she saw it.

A small black book, lying in the middle of the pavement.

She paused, fairly certain that she hadn’t brought one with her, or owned any for that matter. Alex had always hated the haphazard way she left her writing all over the apartment on napkins, sticky notes and A4 printing paper. She picked it up and inspected its hard cover, pressing her fingers into the embossed name on its leather spine.

“Montague.”

“Ma’am, this is a notebook. We don’t shelve notebooks.” the librarian said, handing it back to her.

“I…thought maybe you’d want to keep it in your lost and found.”

“Well, where was it lost?”

“Just out there, on the sidewalk.”

“annnd who found it?” he tucked in his chin, looking at her expectantly.

“…I did” she said, “I see what’s happening.”

“Good. Sorry, but we can’t help you.” He leaned in to whisper, “look it’s probably not going to be missed. It’s just a couple of dessert recipes. Pretty sure you could find any of them on Google.”

“Montague.”

She found herself saying again as she made her way back out. The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t decide why. She brought out her phone, thinking of what the librarian had said.

You could pretty much Google anything nowadays.

She flicked through the results, “Henry Montague…local businessman…Montague & Co Manufacturing…1419 Appleyard Drive.”

“Appleyard Drive.” She sounded out. According to Google maps, it was only forty minutes away.

Deep down, she knew it would be ridiculous to go, but the alternative was going home to watch her boyfriend fold clothes into a family-sized suitcase as he prepared to leave her. Somehow, this seemed more productive.

She arrived at the monogrammed wrought iron gate, now fully aware that this was not only the wealthiest neighbourhood in the city, but that she was about to meet it’s wealthiest resident.

“Google really undersold you, didn’t they Montague.”

“Hello?” a disembodied voice said.

Panicked, her eyes darted around the property “Montague?”

“Yes, this is the Montague residence, how may I help you?”

“I have this” she held up the notebook, unsure where the camera was.

The gates glided open at the sound of the buzzer. As she made her way through the reception, she marvelled at the ceiling high limestone columns and matching marble floors, clean enough for her to see her reflection. Her puffy eyes and disheveled hat hair made her feel out of place in such a perfect room.

What am I doing here? This is clearly a mistake—

“Hello?” An older gentleman in a tailored suit towered over her. It was him, the disembodied voice.

“I’m here to return this.” She said.

“Yes, thank you my dear- we’ve been expecting you.” He took the book and squeezed her hands, looking appreciatively into her eyes. Suddenly she was filled with a sense of warmth. She felt like the most welcomed person in the world.

“Wow, no of course- it’s my pleasure” She smiled.

“You wait just one moment.” He drifted into a smaller room, “And how was your day dear?” he called.

“Well,” she sighed, “I’ve only just broken up with my boyfriend. Actually, he broke up with me. Apparently he thinks I have a tendency to fixate on my ideas because I like to envelope myself in a warm blanket of self-importance. But really, I know it’s because we have incompatible attachment styles— I watched a YouTube video about it…honestly, I watched a couple. Little does he know that he is an avoidant-dismissive and he’s just scared of commitment. I’m anxious-preoccupied if you couldn’t already tell,” she laughed nervously, “You know what’s funny is, I’ve come to realise I’m like that with everything. Anxious … preoccupied. All the time.”

The gentleman walked back into the room with his hands cupped together and a supportive smile on his face.

“Oh God!” she said, “Sorry I didn’t realise I was doing it right now—it’s just like Alex said.”

“You know dear. I have a son that often does just the same.” He smiled, “He too speaks very passionately and thoroughly about his ideas. It’s almost as though he wants you to see the inner workings of his mind. Like he is trying so desperately to connect.” He said softly, “My son is autistic you see. My wife and I call it talking in paragraphs and we love so dearly that he wants to connect with us— the best way he knows how. Don’t dislike the things that make you different my dear. They are very often our best qualities.”

She starred at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Wow” she said. “Thank you, I’m so glad I came here.” she laughed. “Have a good day.”

“Wait, can’t forget this.” He said, handing her a small piece of paper. The smile on her face disappeared. She took a step back trying to catch her balance.

“…This is a cheque for twenty thousand dollars.”

“Well of course.” He looked at her, equally as confused but clearly for different reasons, “Are you not Henry’s niece? Ms. Victoria?”

She nodded slowly, immediately regretting lying. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know; why would dessert recipes be worth twenty thousand dollars?

“Actually” she blurted out as he began to walk away. “I think there’s been a mistake. W-with the book, I need to see it again. In fact, I might need to take it home.”

“Whatever for?”

“I need to read it...again. Make sure everything’s there.”

“I suppose that’s okay. But admittedly you’d be indebted to me.” he joked.

“Here” she said pulling out a bar of chocolate, trying to steady her shaking hand. He laughed as he read the wrapper “Thank you my dear, though it seems crude to eat this peanut butter bar just a day after Henry’s passing.”

“…What?” The room was spinning again.

“Yes” the gentleman, said, “Your uncle was allergic to all nuts. As his butler, I ensured they were never within reach. Didn’t you know?”

He’s not my uncle and I didn’t know he was dead. She wanted to say—once again regretting her lie—but she shook her head instead.

He leaned in, whispering gravely, “I believe what you said over the phone dear, but we must hurry.”

* * *

She opened the notebook once more—her front door barely shutting behind her—this time, reading every word:

‘Here in lies eight recipes: Cherry Pie, Banana Foster, Crème Brûlée, Charlotte Apple Russe, Lemon Cake, Gateau Alexandra, Upside-Down Cake, Victoria Sponge Cake. Please take recipes found outside this book with a pinch of salt.’

She had looked at ever recipe and figured out one thing for certain; for every two recipes, only one seemed edible. The Banana Foster for example, required ‘2500’ bottles of rum, whereas the Charlotte Russe only needed ½ a cup of almonds.

She opened her laptop and search for Montague again, noticing now that her hands were still shaking.

‘Local businessman and philanthropist, Henry Montague dies at 73, family yet to comment.’

She had been so upset about the breakup earlier that she hadn’t seen it. But it had been right there all along. She sighed, flipping jadedly through the notebook. That’s when she realised. The very last recipe, the Victoria sponge cake. Scribbled hurriedly at the bottom:

‘1419 Apples.’

At 1419 Appleyard, the butler had asked her if she was Ms. Victoria, Montague’s niece. She looked up at her computer once more.

‘Family yet to comment.’

She searched Victoria Montague but there was no article, just a small mention of a ‘niece’ by the same name.

‘Try instead: Charlotte Montague’ was written under the search bar and so she clicked. There was an article from five years ago detailing how Henry's daughter had squandered her trust fund on a failed fashion line. The article also compared her to her more responsible brother, who oversaw the Montague Rum & Whiskey Distillery, Foster.

As in, Banana Foster.

“Every second dessert is a relative. ”

Her phone started buzzing in her pocket. It was Alex.

“Alex, you’re never going to believe this. I found book of recipes, except they aren’t recipes at all; it’s the secret will of a very wealthy man. He had previously promised his estate to his daughter but left it to her cousin instead—except she’s missing Alex! Victoria’s missing and Montague’s dead! The notebook- I think it's Victoria’s. I’m so close to figuring it out; I just need a few more clues to tie it all together. If I’m right this, could be huge, book-worthy even.”

“Are you serious? I thought you were calling to apologise— This is about your book? Lola, are you there?”

She was, but his voice grew faint. Because it was at this moment that she saw it. She hadn’t noticed it before because it wasn’t a ridiculous figure like the 25000 rum bottles, but it was all that she needed. All that Charlotte needed to kill her father, hidden in the recipe. ½ cup of almonds.

“Henry was allergic to nuts. The butler said so.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need to call the police.”

* * *

Alex hugged her as he came through the door the next morning.

“Oh my God, are you okay? This is insane, it’s all over the news!!”

“Yeah I saw.” Lola smiled weakly.

“So the Charlotte girl, she kills her dad, forges his will and kidnaps Victoria, the only other person who knew about the original? Except you had the lost will all along? Unbelievable!”

“Look,” she said bringing out a small cake, “I made this for you. It’s a Victoria sponge,” she smiled, “I got inspired from the book.”

“Ah that’s okay.” he yawned, “I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth.”